The Map: A Game Of Thrones fanfic tale
by aaron.c.jones.7
Summary: Resting by campfire after a day of hunting for food, Bran, Hodor, and Meera find themselves joined by a mysterious, scarred traveler from a distant land, with secrets of his own, and a tale beyond their wildest imaginings...


The Map: A Game Of Thrones Tale

Fanfiction By Aaron Jones

The man said nothing, offered nothing in the way of greeting, or even his name as he ate; a throaty belch the only contribution thus far to alleviating the sudden tension around the campfire born the moment he strode alone from out of the shadowy treeline; his massively built form blotting out the meager campfire's amber glow as he collapsed himself uninvited in front of it with a deep, weary sigh. The charred hunk of greasy wild duck now disappearing into his mouth had been snatched from the iron spit over the blaze with a rough swipe and half of it already swallowed with an appreciative grunt before he'd even sat down.

Bran shifted from his place near the flames, using his arms to prop himself into an upright position on the furs beneath him as much as he could, leaning on the rabbit pelt traveling pack he carried his smallclothes in. Panic fluttered gracelessly in his chest as his eyes darted towards each of his companions. First to Hodor, who wore the same uncomprehending look of benign confusion that normally clung to his broad, bearded face as he gaped intently at the mute stranger, shooting an inquisitive sidelong glance at his young lord as if seeking an explanation. Bran shrugged and slowly shook his head, turning his attention quickly to Meera. The daughter of Lord Reed was as still as stone, the uneasiness clear on her pale, plain features, yet she wisely made no move to confront or attack the man. Her hand, however, inched its way slowly across her fur pallet towards the oaken bow and quiver bundled neatly at her side with the near imperceptible grace of a hunter drawing cord on unsuspecting prey. If the stranger noticed, he made no sign; the heavy, hooded cloak of tanned bear hide obscuring his face in a pit of shadow, pierced only by an occasional glint of yellow from the dark Bran assumed was an earring of gold caught by firelight.

 _Where is Summer?_ The part of Bran's mind still calm, still focused, strained itself to detect any mental odor, any telepathic sign of his pet's whereabouts lingering on the chill wind _. Nothing._ The only thing he could feel with any clarity emanated from the small hidden cave half a league to the east, where he and his companions has spent the past six months, and the wonders concealed within it. That its secrets should remain so was the very reason why their hunting parties always took great care in finding food such a distance away, as to not attract undue attention, and yet the latter had happened regardless.

Bran's direwolf had padded away from camp and into the forest hours ago on one of its usual solitary forages, and had yet to return. Normally this was not cause for alarm since the massive beast was well twice the size of an average wolf, and could more than take care of itself, but the recent addition to their group had also emerged from the same direction Summer had gone, which worried him. If something had happened to the animal because of this strange man, Bran prayed silently to the Old Gods that before he should die, they give his broken body strength enough to-

"Wine," a rumbling voice demanded, scattering his thoughts.

Bran flinched involuntarily, as did Meera and Hodor. Brown hands, corded and thick, drew back the cone of fur obscuring the stranger's face, the hood now at his back as the man stared, barefaced into the fire.

The first thing Bran noticed was his eyes. Blue, they were; sapphire-bright and deeply-set, his face brown, thick and chiseled like the statues of the Kings Of Winter in the crypts beneath Winterfell; a block of granite covered in flesh. His hair was black as quill oil and long, shot through with grey, draping his shoulders and across his heavy brow, where it ended in a straight, even line above his eyebrows. A badly-healed scar snaked its way across his nose, and down one high cheekbone in a jagged slash, further adding to an already fearsome appearance. His mouth was thin-lipped, and set in a fashion that suggested he was not a man who smiled easily, or lightly. Still, there was nothing overtly sinister in his ravaged face; its brutal lines seemed to Bran a result of harsh living in a unforgiving world, rather than by choice. He reminded the boy of some of the tough Northern men who had often visited his late father, Eddard, at feasts or on some official business requiring the attention of the Warden of the North. Save for his skin color, he could have easily passed for a Karstark, or an Umber. Certainly he was big enough; the thick hide cloak he wore had parted slightly in the middle, revealing a light hauberk of grey chainmail armor which only accentuated the heavily muscled chest beneath it. But the fact that the sun in those frozen lands gave nowhere near enough light to bronze a man that deeply, made that a distinct impossibility. And there was something else about the man as well, something the Stark lordling couldn't quite put his finger on; a tugging of invisible strings in the recesses of his young mind in a place he'd first discovered when he'd first dreamt of the Three-Eyed Raven soaring among the deserted battlements and courtyard of his home. He simply _didn't belong there._ Not just in the North, as their meager campfire, or even beyond the Wall, but _anywhere in the world._

"W-we don't have any wine." Meera, her voice thin and quavering, answered the stranger. Her hand was atop the bow now, and trembling. The man's azure gaze fixated on her, then her weapon, one black eyebrow quizzically raised in soft amusement. Meera swallowed hard, and removed her hand slowly, tucking it back inside the recesses of her jerkin. She looked at Bran.

The man sighed. "No wine?" he questioned in a barbarous, accented growl, gesturing emphatically. The implied query was directed at the group as a whole, and he glowered impatiently for an answer.

"Water." It took Bran a second to realize that it was his own voice. A wave of anxiousness made him lightheaded as the stranger suddenly roared with laughter, a rich, resonant bass that echoed through the moonlit night and into the woodlands beyond. Still laughing, the man scooped a handful of snow, and tossed it into the blaze.

"Here is your water!" he barked contemptuously. "All the water a man could drink in a thousand lifetimes, by Mitra! A man needs _wine_ after a meal, boy!" He snorted derisively, frowning as if that was the most obvious thing in the world. Bran felt his face flush with embarrassment at the stranger's mocking tone, which faded into curiosity as the man dismissed him with a disgusted toss of his dark hair. Straightening slightly, the Warrior threw aside the bearskin around him, revealing an enormous sword hooked to a wide leathern belt around his waist, studded with metal discs. Carefully, he drew the weapon from its hide-covered sheath, and placed it across his thick haunches, working the length of it with a strip of oilcloth.

It was a broadsword, Bran knew at first glance, from its size, yet it was like no broadsword he had ever seen before. It was as wide as his own palm and nearly as long as he was tall; the hilt an ornate filigree of golden-colored metal wreathing the upper portion of the hilt on opposite sides. The blade itself was bluish steel, and etched with dark rune-like symbols down half its length. Bran had never seen such a beautifully crafted weapon before, except illustrated in dusty old books on Maester Luwin's cluttered shelves, high in the turret above Winterfell. Clearly it was old-ancient even—yet gleamed with a high polish, like a column of freshly minted silver. The man's big hands moved slowly, almost ritualistically across its deadly surface, the awe and reverence he held for the weapon clear. Finished, he stood the sword up longways and admired his work, its angular point buried in the snow.

A sudden blur of motion. Meera was on her feet, bow in hand, the taut string creaking slightly as one feathered shaft calmly leveled at the Stranger's head. Hodor scrambled to his feet as well, heaving with the effort and stood up awkwardly, panting with exertion. Quickly he rushed to Bran, sending tin plates and cups clattering in his wake as he knelt protectively beside him, alert and ready. The man paused in his ministrations, his attentions still fixed on his sword.

''In my land, all who travel the dark are welcome by nightfires, friend or enemy. If I intended you harm, your bodies would be cooling in the snow right now, not trading looks of worry amongst one another.'' He spat on the bit of cloth, using the point of a finger to augur a blot of dirt near the hilt. ''I have journeyed far, I hungered, and now I thirst. Perhaps I should have been more-courteous-but that is not my way. I meant no offense, girl,'' he rumbled.

Meera's aim wavered slightly, her arms straining with the effort. " _Offense_?!" she hissed at him, the veins in her neck muscles cording with anger. "You march uninvited into our camp, you eat our food— _steal_ our food-and beg our pardon after its already warming your belly, and call it an offense?! No, you're a thief, ser. In _my_ land, thieves _hang_.'' The threat hung in the air, and her bow string tightened.

"Wait…." Bran cautioned, struggling himself upright. His friend was deadly with the curved oaken bow, he knew, but the narrow stone arrow she'd hastily selected was from the ones she used for felling birds and small game, and he doubted they would do much to slow their "guest" if he was quick enough to avoid a head shot. And he was, of that the Stark boy had no doubt. Though heavily muscled and of advanced years, the man still moved with a coiled, almost feline grace, evident in even the simplest of his motions. Even sitting still he strangely reminded Bran of a direwolf somehow; his careful, controlled power like a trained fighting beast waiting for its master's whistle to strike.

The Warrior chuckled ruefully, a deep, booming sound. "Aye, lass; I have been a thief. And a soldier, and a manslayer, and likely will be again, if the years allow. Many foes have died by my hand," he admitted, running a callused thumb gingerly along the knife edge of his broadsword. "But none of them were children or-" He paused, regarding Bran and Hodor speculatively….cripples." The last word came out almost venomous in his strange accented tongue, but plainly, with no malice evident in his words or face. Whoever this man was-whatever he was-he was no liar; Bran had seen enough of those in his short life to tell the difference by now. So had Meera. Carefully she lowered her weapon, un-nocking the arrow and placing it back in its quiver. A relieved sigh left Hodor as he sank down heavily by Bran's side. Hodor was huge even by Westerosi standards, and as strong as a bull, but gentle and kindly by nature, and he hated violence. Meera, on the other hand, was fiercely protective of Bran, and had been ever since her brother Jojen was-had died. Bran often heard her at night, crying softly, slurring his name in her sleep.

 _Names…_ Bran took a breath, deeply.

"I'm-Jon.", he blurted quickly, lest his nerve betray him. "And that's Meera, my sister. And this is Hodor". He motioned towards each of his companions with each introduction. Hodor grinned, giving one of his customary "hodor's", his voice trailing off bashfully under the Warrior's impassive gaze. An icy silence was the Reed girl's only reply. The Warrior nodded in acknowledgement, flashing a feral smile at her.

"She has a stout heart, your sister,'' he told Bran. "And a she-lion's temperament. I'm sure your father and mother would be pleased to see their family's honor defended so fiercely." Bran idly wondered what his father _would_ think if he saw one of his own daughters in that situation, unlikely as it was. Sansa, with her gowns, her tea parties and moony-eyed fancies of gallant knights was far too ladylike to ever touch a knife that wasn't placed in front of her at a dinner table.

Arya, on the other hand, was headstrong and willful. Once, she'd failed to tidy her room after being told half a dozen times, and Old Nan had informed Father, who made her spend half the next day helping the stablemaster muck out stalls as punishment. Arya scrawled Nan's name on a slip of parchment so she wouldn't forget, whispering it over and again as she toiled and vowing to repay her with some childish prank or another, but she never did. _The wolf's blood runs deep in her, my sweet little Arya,_ Mother said later, _but Sansa's is cool, and calm; Tully blood through and through_. Thinking of his siblings then made him suddenly very homesick, and sad. He missed them. Arya, Sansa, Rickon, Robb-even Jon, his sullen half-brother who had never really felt like a ''half'' at all. Bran had last seen him at Craster's Keep slaughtering the Night's Watch deserters who had kept them hostage, and had wanted so badly to shout through the sparse line of trees separating them, but hadn't. _He'd have only tried to keep me from coming here. He wouldn't have understood. How could he? I barely did myself. I'm sorry, Jon. I truly a-?_

The Warrior was staring at him. Vaguely, Bran remembered hearing something while lost in his memories; an impatient, questioning tone. The man had spoken to him.

"Wh-what?" he stammered, snapping out of his reverie.

"I asked where your family lives and if your home is nearby", the Warrior repeated testily, sheathing the greatsword in its leather scabbard and stretching his fur-clad boots out by the smoldering timbers. "And if there be somewhere I might find supplies and a horse. I will need both before this journey is over. He yawned, scanning the surrounding gloom and ice. "This country is as bleak as any I have seen before, and as fraught with dangers, I expect. A man with a sword and skill might be able to fight a hundred devils out here, but not a thousand, and only a fool would try to flee them on two legs, when he could have four."

"And where might that be, exactly?" Meera questioned bluntly. Bran had been wondering the same thing, but wisely thought it best not to ask. As waifish and unassuming as his friend was, timidity was a foreign concept to her, and she could argue the white from a Kingsguard's cloak if she had a mind to. Seven Hells, if this was some attempt to goad the man into another confrontation—but no; he could see she was truly as curious as he was; her earlier open hostility erased by a look of genuine interest, her bow now discarded in a pile of wood and string beside her. Hodor, on the other hand, had given up following the conversation entirely, and was now snoring from under a pile of furs by Bran's side. Bran, smiling, could not fault him at all. The stablehand's earliest days since their escape from the Ironborn occupation of Winterfell had been mostly spent hauling his crippled lord around over the rugged hills and icy tundra that made up the land Beyond The Wall on his back; a grueling task that he had always performed with his usual cheerfulness and care. If a night of rest was what he craved, Bran would not rob him.

Cross-legged, the Warrior leaned into the firelight, his rugged features almost hollow in the muted glow as one hand stroked the stubble on his chin thoughtfully. ''A place you've never heard of, girl,'' he replied solemnly. "And likely never will." He stared into the fire as he continued.

"A land where towers of ivory glitter in the night like jewels cast among desert sands,'' he spoke, his eyes shining with cobalt intensity, "….where hulking, crimson-eyed beasts squat in ancient crypts, guarding treasures enough to make kings of paupers, and dark-robed sorcerers lie virgins upon altars of bone. A world of crimson skies, and grey, untamed seas. A land of battles, glory, and of blood." One hand was on his sword now, gripping fiercely. Meera spat into the snow, shaking her head.

"That's impossible", she replied hotly. "No place like that exists; not here, not anymore. Not even across the Narrow Sea. What you're describing are fairytales-children's stories. The only magic left in …" At the word _children_ , Bran shot her a warning look, which she caught, stopping herself midsentence.

The Warrior nodded sagely, dark locks tumbling from his shoulders. "As a boy, I thought the same. My father never filled my head with childish fictions; only lessons about the gods, and their gifts to our people; the blessings of fire, and steel. When I would ask him about what I'd heard from the other boys in the village, or from old traders who would often pass through about magic and wizards, and whether they were real, he would cuff me across the head and say I was being foolish. Then, as time passed, I became a man, and learned the truth for myself." He paused, smiling grimly to himself. "Too often, it would seem.'' The Warrior inhaled deeply, and began:

"We were traveling home, my companions and I, through the snows and mountains on our way back to the settlements on the coast after a month of hard riding. Our leader was Hemval, a friend from my youth whose father was chieftain of a clan in that region that often traded with my people. Several of their villages had been raided, their women and children taken, by slavers from the borderlands to the South, and the warriors who had ridden after them had not returned. I had just come home after many years in the lands of the West, when my old friend sought my aid. Weary though I was, I could refuse him not. And so we set out, 20 men in all, through the cold and hoarfrost, our hearts yearning for vengeance. By the time we caught their trail and made it to their camp, we were maddened with rage, and descended upon them like iron demons summoned from Hell. When it was over, the snows were red with their blood, their bodies cooking in armor from our torches, and their heads dripped gore from our saddlebags." Here the Warrior sighed, regret softening his stern features. "Alas, 'twas too late; the prisoners had already been sent further south, days earlier, with the rest of the spoils. A hollow victory," he added softly, "especially for Hemval. His daughter Ruggah had been among the taken. There was nothing we could do, except morn our loss, living and dead."

The Warrior went silent for a time, alone with his thoughts. Meera rummaged into her travel pack, producing a corked leather wineskin, and tossed it to the man, who caught it in midair, reflexively. He popped the cork strung around its neck, sniffing the contents, and glared at her.

"We use it for treating wounds,'' she admitted sheepishly.

A hint of a smile toyed with the corners of the Warrior's mouth. "As do I,'' he said, taking a hearty swig. When he was finished, he smacked his lips with relish, wiping his mouth with a sleeve as he continued. "We were nearly half a day's ride home when the clouds began turning dark, and heavy with storm. Rather than try and seek shelter, it was decided that we would try to outrun it, and pray our steeds could endure the punishment. A wise choice, considering that most of our provisions were gone and several of our number bore serious wounds best treated by a healer. The men trailing us, however, had other plans."

"You were followed," Bran broke in softly, earning a brusque nod. He'd always loved tales of adventure, and the Warrior had a knack for storytelling; his coarse growl giving every sentence a grave, ominous air that chilled the boy to the bone, yet eager to hear more. Even Meera had paused sharpening her pile of loose arrowheads dulled from that morning's hunt, and was thoroughly engrossed, her mouth agape and patiently hanging on his every word.

The Warrior grunted. "Aye. Some of their companions who'd spent the night whoring and drinking in town a few miles away had come back in the morn to find what had befallen their friends. We doubled back, and met them head-on, just as the storm fell. Their leader called himself Ulfthag, and wore thick plate armor of deep crimson; the color of poisoned blood. As did the gigantic white stallion he sat upon. His head and beard was a mass of tangled yellow, plaited with finger bones. The war axe he held was also stained, though not by a smith's doing; it was the blood of terrified women and children, dried into the blade. A fearsome sight, to be sure.'' He paused, helping himself to another deep swallow of wine. "That one I claimed for myself, while my comrades drew swords on the rest. We dismounted and clashed, hurling curses at one another as around us steel sparked and sang.''

"To call the fight effortless on my part would be false; the man was no weakling, and between the stinging winds and snow at my face, I could barely see him, in truth. But, I did have a distinct advantage that served me well as his ax sliced and hacked, and I struggled near-blind in a sea of bitter white…..''

''He was wearing red!'' Meera blurted excitedly.

The big man gave another wolfish grin. "Sharp lass. I could see naught but the bitter hue of his armor in all that pale, but that was enough. A feint at the right moment, a block from an overhead strike, and my sword found its way to his heart, and mighty Ulfthag found his way to the waiting arms of his ancestors.''

Another generous swig from the wineskin."…After a time,'' he added, belching loudly.

"Then what happened?'' Bran demanded.

The Warrior face grew grave. "Nothing", he replied. "No screams, no sounds of combat, nothing save the howl of the winds, and the stench of spilled gore from the bodies littering the hillside around me. I have been at war most of my life, you see, and if there is one truth I have learned, it is that the fall of silence in the midst of fighting can mean but one thing: Either you've been killed, and your spirit doomed to wander the battlefield, or you still live, and everyone else is dead. Since phantoms do not bleed or feel the bite of the cold, the answer was clear. So I gathered what provisions I could from the fallen horses and stumbled my way down the slopes and through the blizzard, hoping to find shelter. For hours I trudged knee-deep through the snow, limbs heavy with fatigue, eyes buffeted by the storm's fury, until weariness finally claimed me, and I sank near the foot of a mountain; near-frozen and…. _weak_."

The Warrior's jaw twisted around the word as if it left a bitter tang in his mouth, like curdled milk. Bran figured the very _concept_ of weakness _;_ of utter helplessness even in the face of near-impossible odds, was likely a thing foreign to him, and to admit it to a pair of strange children probably made him feel…lesser…somehow in their eyes. The boy felt bad for him in that moment. Uncouth though the man was, he possessed a defiant, unyielding resolve that Bran had begun to admire more than the mere animalistic power evident in his powerful frame.

"But you didn't die; you survived, when other men would have surely perished,'' Bran added helpfully in an attempt to lessen the embarrassment the Warrior must've felt. The stranger's blue eyes glimmered in the fire's glow as he regarded Bran with something that in a friend's eyes might be read as _gratitude_ , nodding in assent. "Aye, I did, though it was through no sole effort of mine. I was nearly done, and knew it without a doubt. All those years spent laughing in the face of death, and a blizzard was about to accomplish what hordes of men, demons, and beasts could not. 'Twas a sour irony, and I laughed at myself in spite of the pain. No, Jon; It was the _sun that saved me_." The Warrior gathered his bearskin cloak around him, tightly and explained:

"I was on my knees in the snows, my face caked in frost, head bent, when I felt a stab of warmth like a dagger piercing the cold air. I lifted my head slowly, and that's when I saw it: a shaft of light, pulsing from a jagged cleft in the mountain's base, like a beacon on a stormy sea. Gathering what little strength I had left, I rose to my feet, and trudged towards the cave, and the source of the strange, unearthly light. Near the entrance of the cave, I saw a row of stairs, hewn from solid rock, descending down a narrow passage. Cautiously, I entered, not knowing if I would encounter inside friend or foe, mercy or devil. Neither was the case, it turned out, but what I found was no less incredible when I finally made my way down the steps, and into the chamber within. There, atop a table carved from the rock itself, lay the source of the radiance which had called to me, bright as the dawn in the small cavern. It was…a _map_."

"What!?" Meera and Bran exclaimed in unison, exchanging sheepish grins. The Warrior smiled as well.

"Aye. A map. But like none I had ever seen before. It wasn't paint on animal hide, or scrawled on canvass; rather, it was carved from painted stone, from one end of the table to the other. Upon it were scattered intricately sculpted models of strange cities, temples, and fortresses all made of brass and wood, whose pieces shifted and interlocked upon themselves like a child's clockwork toy; walls and buttresses rising and unfolding before my eyes as if alive. I saw a statue of a woman sprout wings from a pyramid in the center of a small kingdom in one instance, and tiny red leaves sprout from the branches of a tree the size of my finger in the next. And above it all, suspended in midair, three interlocked rings made of gold and brass, twisting and wreathing around a miniature sun, blazing with mystical power. The rings were engraved, as well; etchings of a lion, a stag, and a wolf, pursuing each other." The Warrior paused in his narrative, eyeing Bran and Meera speculatively. Neither said a word. The big man shrugged, and resumed. "…Thinking I had stumbled into a sorcerer's secret lair, or some alchemist's weird experiments, I turned to flee, when a blinding burst of light suddenly overtook me, overwhelming my senses. When I awoke, I was outside, under a clear night sky. The snowstorm was gone as if it had never been, and suddenly I found myself near the edge of a great dark forest. This forest," he indicated with a sweeping gesture at the trees beyond.

Lion. Stag… _Wolf. Lannister, Baratheon, Stark._ Bran suddenly felt very hot, and coughed loudly, trying desperately to disguise his sudden discomfort as Meera tried her best to draw the man's attention with a low, drawn out whistle of mock-amazement. The Warrior glared at her.

"You think me mad," he accused bluntly.

Meera shrugged her thin shoulders in response, smiling beatifically. "Of course not, ser", she replied smugly, raising her hands in false surrender. "Pray continue," she pleaded. "Please. Tell us more about the magic child's toy and spinning animal sun rings. And if at any time in the story, a grumpkin or a snark should appear, please tell us about them, too." At that, the Warrior's face became stony, and for a wild moment Bran thought he was going to attack or insult her. Instead, he merely chuckled, deep and mirthlessly.

"Do you take me for a fool, girl? I've sat across from enough bettors in taverns and gaming houses in my life to know when someone is bluffing me. You mock me not because you doubt my words; you mock because you believe them. That's what scares you so, and rightly. That there are things in the world that cannot be explained in any wise man's books; or killed with your pretty bow, or by any crude weapon forged by man. You know this to be true, because….you've seen it. I see it in your eyes. As have I. Many, many times."

Meera lurched forward, scattering the pile of arrowheads in her lap. "Who in the Seven Hells are you to tell me what I've seen?" she yelled angrily, stabbing the air with a finger. "You're just some addle-minded Wilding drifter who got his fat head cracked open one too many times, trying to make up for stealing food with some insane story about tiny clockwork cities!" The Warrior's mouth twisted in a snarl as he prepared some savage curse to hurl at her, before puzzlement broke across his scarred face.

"Wild-ling? I know not this word. What means a "wildling?" He looked to Bran, who was about to respond, when Meera interrupted him.

"You! You're a Wildling!" She yelled back, chest heaving with anger. "A _savage_. From beyond the-" Her anger slowed, fading as she realized that the stranger's ignorance was genuine, and she took a breath, calming herself, her green eyes wide with amazement. "You've never heard of the Wildlings? Seriously?" The Warrior grunted, shaking his head.

"They live here, in the North, beyond the Wall", Bran injected helpfully. "tribespeople who raid villages and towns to the South sometimes. The call themselves 'Free Folk', but my grandfather used to call them barbarians." At that the Warrior's brutal features bore an aspect of curiosity, and he tilted his black-maned head in understanding.

"Ah. _Barbarian_. That word I know," he said wryly. "I too, am a… _Northerner_ , you might say, and my homeland is very much like this. Open sky, fresh, cool air; mountains of rock tipped in white…."But these", he gestured at the glittering dark above them, "…are not the skies of my home. Even the stars here are wrongly placed. And this is not my world, that much is certain." Absently, his hand went to the sword lying by his side. Bran got the sense that this man—whoever he was-was never too far away from the weapon, and considered it and those like it, his only true companions in life. His intuitive sense had returned sometime during the Warrior's tale, and needled him stronger than ever. He was telling the truth. The man _was_ lost; a traveler from some other plane of existence tossed an incalculable distance across an invisible sea. Bran felt it.

"This… _map…_ you spoke of; you believe that it somehow…brought you here?" he asked. "By what means? Magic?" An absurd suggestion by any normal reckoning; but given the circumstances of his own life, one Bran was in no position to argue. Magic existed, plain and simple: a fact no one was more aware of that the crippled boy and his friends.

"Would not be the first I've heard of such a thing," The Warrior replied sagely. "The power of creating passages- _portals_ , as they are known in spell tomes and scrolls-is no mere child's imagining from where I hail. Rather, it is a skill wielded by only the most powerful mages and wizards, requiring deep knowledge of the mystical and arcane. An old friend -a sorcerer-once told me that there existed portals to worlds beyond counting just beyond the fabric of time and space, and that these worlds were like twins nestled in a mother's arms: similar at a glance, yet vastly different inside.'' He shrugged, grunting dismissively. "I thought he was just drunk. I was a younger man then, and mistrusted things I could not see with my eyes or crush with a blow from a fist. Especially talk of sorcery.''

Bran opened his mouth to ask a question, then froze suddenly, his body rigid as the familiar sense of _otherness_ seized his mind, glazing his eyes. He fell back, convulsing as the warging took hold, his vision doubling. He could barely make out the two figures rushing to him: one slim, and fearful; the other much larger and cradling his head quickly in broad hands; their voices distorted and distant as-

 _-He was running now, his legs and arms covered in downy grey fur; the air in his lungs raspy and moist; blood from the rabbit he'd caught still drying on his muzzle, its rich tang heady in his mouth. THEY had come; he knew it from the way the air in the forest had suddenly grown even colder and thick with the smell of them and their dead horses; a rank chill that cut into the tender flesh of his sensitive nose like rotten meat thawing. HE was not with them this time; the ancient, terrible one they obeyed, whose cruel face was seared into the Boy's memory; no, he was far away, somewhere else and yet…not, just as the Boy was sometimes. THEY hadn't come for the Boy just yet, though in time he knew THEY would, just as THEY would for the Man and the Children, too. But not tonight. THEY didn't even know The Boy was there in the forest. THEY were just ranging the grounds, hunting the same as he, only their prey didn't get torn apart with teeth, or left stinking behind a tree in the Bright Time, after the Sleeping Time was done…Their prey became THEM, or died fighting and rose again as something_ _else. And so he ran as hard as he could on the cold ground, back to the fire and stone where he'd left the Boy and The Girl and the Giant One to warn them before-_

Bran awoke with a start, gasping hoarsely; his hands frantically clutching the empty air, as if trying to ward off the vision still haunting his sight in phantom afterimages. The Warrior was crouched low beside him now, holding his shuddering body steady as he sat upright and struggled for breath, as was Meera, her hand protectively on his knee; Hodor hovering above them.

"What was it?" Meera's voice, concerned and insistent as she searched his face with her eyes.

"Easy, girl," the Warrior soothed. "Give him time to get his wind back." Slowly, he released Bran into a comfortable sitting position and squatted back on his heels, putting some room between the two of them. Whiplike, he spun on Meera, grabbing her shoulder with an iron grip. "Why did you not tell me he had the shaking sickness?" he demanded angrily, his eyes narrowed with fury. She grimaced, and batted his hand away, cursing.

"Oww! Let go of me dammit! That's not what this was!" she snapped. "He sees things—"

" _Others_ …." Bran croaked weakly, interrupting her. A rustle from the treeline made everyone's head turn in alarm; the Warrior springing nimbly to his feet, drawing his sword in a tight-shouldered stance. A mammoth blur of grey exploded from the veldt, bounding towards them at breakneck speed before slowing at the sight of the massive stranger in its path. Summer and the Warrior faced one another warily, the direwolf's muzzle a jagged chasm the color of bleached bone under the wintry moonlight as it snapped and snarled at him, circling cautiously. The man matched Summer's aggressive posture as well; teeth bared, eyes narrowed and hostile; his dark mane loose and wild. Then, without a word, he slowly lowered his weapon as the direwolf slunk cautiously around him to Bran, panting. Exhausted though he was, the scene fascinated the young Stark, who could scarcely believe his eyes. Never before had he seen his pet relent to any human before, let alone a stranger, and yet, he felt as if something… _unspoken_ had just passed between the two; a silent accord on an ancient, near-primal level they both shared. It was only for the briefest of moments, but in it Bran was certain, oddly, that his new friend had more in common with four-legged beasts than he ever would with civilized men.

At his pronouncement, Meera's face had grow pale. Quickly, she began gathering her things, pausing only to sharply demand Hodor to do the same. The stablehand—still groggy- snapped into action and followed suit, loading his and Bran's possessions into the small palaquin used to transport his charge. The Warrior merely stood and watched them in puzzlement.

"What is the matter? What 'others'? Girl, I asked you a-" He reached for Meera again, this time lightly, who jerked sharply away.

The words tumbled from her in a breathless rush. "Remember that fear you spoke of? That you saw in me? The Warrior grunted in affirmation. "Well, it's on its way," she replied, shouldering her pack and arrows. And we must go… _Now_!" She sidestepped him and ran over to Hodor, who was busy securing Bran into the litter. The Warrior followed, and regarded them silently as they prepared to leave.

" These…Others. What are they, exactly? Are they men, or beasts of some sort?" He waited for a response. Meera started to ignore him, continuing to pack while Hodor gamely repeated the sole word he was capable of uttering. After a moment's hesitation, she allowed a herself a moment to answer him. "Both, and neither," she murmured. "I don't have time to explain right now, but I suppose if you came with us-"

The Warrior held up one hand, halting her midsentence. "Can they be killed?"

"Y-yes, but-"

"How?" The Warrior scanned the distant trees, sword in hand. The dull swell of the wind, which had been a near-constant through the evening, had suddenly gone deathly quiet. Even the chirping of insects, and the occasional trill of night birds had ceased, leaving only an unnatural silence in its wake, punctuated now by the vaporous exhales of the four travelers and the direwolf on the frigid air.

"Valyrian steel, or dragonglass," Meera answered her back to him as she carefully secured Bran to the cart with thick hempen straps. "Two things we don't exactly have with us in abundance right now." She turned, casting a doubtful eye at the Warrior's broadsword. "I don't suppose that's a Valyrian blade, is it?"

The big man hefted the broadsword, holding it horizontally, for her inspection as she ran a careful hand across the long, flat blade.

"It's Atlantean," he admitted proudly. "From my world. Forged by the most skilled metalsmiths of that vanished land in the days before the Cataclysm brought it below the ocean's depths. None have ever been able to truly replicate their talents, for it is said they used spells as well as iron in their labors.'' He grinned. ''Perhaps these Valyrians of yours learned their craft from a similar mystical power as the Atlanteans did. Perhaps not. In either case, you should go. I'll stay here, and guard your escape.'' He cast another glance at the forest beyond, his face darkened with grim determination at something only he and Summer, barking furiously, could sense.

Nodding in agreement, Meera quickly gestured to Hodor who, with a grunting effort, heaved the yoke poles onto his wide shoulders. "Wait," Bran ordered feebly. Still weak, and could barely able lift his head from the pallet of cushions and furs, he still managed to summon enough strength to tentatively clasp the Warrior's large hand in his. ''Bran. My name… is Bran Stark. Of Winterfell,'' he whispered softly, shaking it as he would an old friend's. The Warrior returned the gesture.

''Conan. Of Cimmeria,'' he replied simply, as the litter surged forward, the sudden motion forcing Bran back into the furs as weariness overtook him, and he passed out.

Conan stood in the clearing, watching as the four travelers fled across the hillside, their beast galloping beside them before night and distance quickly enveloped them. Though initially frightened, the two children had treated him politely-kindly even- with an immediate respect seldom seen even in civilized men of his own world, and for that he was grateful. The years since he'd given up the crown of Aquilonia to return to wandering the lands of his youth had not been peaceful ones; new wars and adventures had left fresh scars to replace the old, and now, at nearly 50 years of age, the decades were beginning to weigh upon him, body and spirit. At an time when other men were wearying their uninterested children with repetitive tales of their glory days, or sitting hearthside bouncing fat grandchildren on a knee, Conan had forsaken the comfortable life of a king, trading the golden halls and silken garb of a ruler for the hard, unforgiving life of a wanderer once more, the very sword that had cleaved the head of his predecessor-the bloated and vile King Numedides-from his shoulders decades ago now his only constant companion. A man famous among allies and enemies alike for being taciturn and loathe to engage in lengthy conversation, Conan was surprised at how much he had enjoyed talking to the two children and sharing both the food and their company for a time. Silently, he bid them farewell, urging whatever gods they believed dwelt in the heavens or in the depths below to lend divine speed to their escape. Bran was a good lad; intelligent and wise beyond his years, and the Cimmerian had no doubt that he was destined to be a great man; aided in no small measure by the girl Meera who, though small of stature, possessed courage and a strength of will that belied her size. Of the simple Hodor, he could not say with certainty, though he was reminded of a parable he'd heard when still young, whispered softly in his ear lying in the arms of his lover the pirate queen Bêlit, aboard her ship, the _Tigress,_ so many years ago:

 _"_ _My father had a saying, Conan: 'The finest ships that sail the seas, have spines made from the strongest trees.' Remember this, my Amra, should you ever choose to build a ship of your own. Though its captain be hurt, broken, and unable to stand, a ship built sturdy, from a tree with deep roots, will never break, and will always carry him wherever he may wish to go…"_

The trees rustled as the five ghostly figures in black emerged at last, their shriveled skin alight in an unearthly milk-white under the moonlight's wan glow. They were taller than him by at least a foot, their heads sheathed in thin wisps of white hair even paler than the flesh beneath; sunken-cheeked and hollow-eyed. Conan stood his ground as they slowly approached, their expressionless faces scanning the now-abandoned campsite before fixing again upon him. They neither spoke, nor did he expect anything resembling verbal acknowledgement to part those desiccated mouths.

 _This would make a fine ending_ _,_ _,_ he thought distantly, as the creatures drew their crystalline blades, advancing on him. _Would that I were home, instead of here, in this strange place_ _._ _A fitting end to a story that began in battle,the very day I was born_ _._ _But I doubt that even Crom could find me here, should I fall_ _._

 _Nay_ _,_ _the story of Conan the Cimmerian must continue, for a little while longer, I think_ _._ _._

Thus Conan- former thief, warrior, and king of the most powerful kingdom of the Hyborean Age stood alone, broadsword in his fist, as a long-forgotten voice from his past, gravely and low, surfaced unbidden, floating on the winds of memory, in the depths of his mind:

 _…_ _.Not men, not women, not beasts…this you can trust…_

 _I do_ _,_ _Father_ _._ _. I have_ _._ _. And I always will_ _._ _._ Conan took a deep breath and let it escape in a bellowing flood of curses as he rushed forward, his blade sweeping high in a wide, flashing arc as his father's solemn words, the Riddle Of Steel, sang out in the night.

END.


End file.
